


Where the Ocean Meets the Sky and the Land

by StarSpray



Series: Wisdom of the Evening Star [16]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Work In Progress, characters to be added as they show up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3823438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarSpray/pseuds/StarSpray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eärendil has gone sailing again--this time through the skies--and Elwing is left to find a place for herself in Valinor, while the Valar prepare for war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was my 2014 NaNoWriMo project; chapters will be posted more or less as I get them edited/rewritten.

_Take me where the angels are close at hand_  
_Take me where the ocean meets the sky and the land_  
_Show me to the wisdom of the evening star_  
_There's only one way to mend a broken heart_

\- The Wailin' Jennys, "Beautiful Dawn"

* * *

 

 

They arrived in Tirion around sunset. The streets were emptying as the carriage trundled through them. Elwing gazed out the window at mothers leaning out of doorways and windows, calling to children who came scurrying home, dusty and giggling and often sporting scraped knees or elbows.

It was eerily reminiscent of home, except these were Elven children, and there had been precious few of those in Sirion—most of the children who raced up and down the muddy streets there had been the children of Men, dressed in little more than stained, patched rags, and here in Tirion Elwing wasn’t sure there had ever been any child reduced to ragged hand-me-downs that had been patched and repaired so often there was hardly any original fabric left.

There was also no mud in Tirion that Elwing could see. There hadn’t been any in Alqualondë, either, although at least there there was a perpetual dusting of many-colored sand.

She did see many fountains, their spray catching the deep golden light of the sunset, so that it seemed like the fountains were flowing with liquid gold instead of clear water.

“I am glad you agreed to come with me,” Ëarwen said, smiling at Elwing from across the carriage. “Arafinwë is eager to meet you.”

Elwing leaned back against the cushioned seat. Riding in a carriage was still a strange and new experience, and not a particularly comfortable one. She hated the jostling and bumping, and missed the feel of wind in her hair; it was too much like being stuck in the cabin of Vingilot when she would have preferred to be on deck. “I only hope I will not make a fool of myself,” she said.

“You won’t,” Ëarwen said. “You are more familiar with the Noldor than I was when I first visited Tirion.”

Yes, Elwing thought, but the Noldor she had known were a people beaten down and hardened by constant war and innumerable loss. She could not imagine that Arafinwë would be much like Gil-galad, or even Idril, for all that they were kin. She even had difficulty sometimes remembering that Ëarwen was Galadriel’s own mother.

Although _that_ was, perhaps, because she’d met and gotten to know Ëarwen as an adult, while she’d always seen Galadriel as someone far older, an authority, if not a mother-figure.

Twilight was beginning to drift over the city as the carriage rolled to a halt in front of the palace. Elwing had been awestruck in Alqualondë by the gorgeous, airy expanse of Olwë’s palace, but even that did not compare to the magnificence of the royal palace of the Noldor. It was tall—perhaps taller—than the cliffs on which Elwing’s home in Sirion had been built, made of marble and granite carved with ornate and intricate detail. “Oh,” she said faintly, stepping out of the carriage behind Ëarwen.

Ëarwen glanced at her, and then at the palace. “Yes,” she said, “and if you can believe it, there are those who don’t consider it finished—the Noldor aren’t a people to leave well enough alone. But no one’s added anything since Finwë left for Formenos.”

“I…see.” Elwing trailed behind Ëarwen, struggling not to gape like a fish at everything around her.

The floors of Olwë’s palace were pieces of art in themselves, colorful mosaics depicting the Great Journey, Tol Eressëa moving like a great ship across the Sea, or colorful underwater landscapes. Here in Tirion they were plain stone, polished by thousands of steps passing over through the years.

It was eerily empty now, however. Arafinwë had only just arrived back from Valmar, and Ëarwen had said that the rest of his court—only a fraction of what had gathered here under Finwë, or even Fingolfin—would continue to trickle back to Tirion over the next few weeks.

That meant that Elwing would have time to rest and prepare herself a little better before facing any large Noldorin gatherings. She’d attended open court on Balar a few times, but she doubted that was anything like what she would see here in Tirion.

After half a dozen turns and several flights of stairs that left Elwing feeling dizzy and hopelessly lost, Ëarwen stopped in front of a door, looking suddenly bashful. “I asked for Turukáno and Elenwë’s rooms to be readied for you,” she said. “Itarillë was still in the nursery, before they left, or else I would have given you her rooms. But I did not want to put you in the guest quarters, far from the family. I hope you don’t mind.”

Staying in a suite that had once belonged to the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand was unexpectedly intimidating, but Elwing pushed that down and summoned a smile. “Of course,” she said. “Thank you.”

Ëarwen smiled, and pushed the doors open. “If you need anything,” she said, “just ring this bell.” She gestured to a cord near the door, though they both knew that Elwing would avoid using it. She’d not had servants to help her dress or do her hair in Sirion—Galadriel had done her hair up sometimes, when she needed to appear in some kind of official or celebratory capacity, but everything in Middle-earth had been designed for simplicity and speed. And those habits had not been broken by a mere few months in Alqualondë. “And do not hesitate to send for me,” Ëarwen added.

“Thank you,” Elwing said again, as Ëarwen ducked out the door, closing it with a soft click behind her.

Elwing turned in a slow circle, taking in the suite. It was no doubt considered small, and hardly opulent, by the standards of Tirion, and it _seemed_ smaller than her room in Alqualondë, though Elwing wasn’t quite sure that it actually was—everything in Alqualondë seemed bigger because it was all so open. These rooms were cozy, though, and furnished tastefully and simply, with bookcases filled to the brim nestled among comfortable chairs and lounges around the hearth, and a door standing ajar leading to a similarly furnished bedroom.

Her things had been brought inside ahead of her, the trunk of Telerin make, fashioned from pale driftwood, looking distinctly out of place among the darker wood furnishings. Elwing pulled out a fresh gown, and ran a comb through her hair, finishing just as a servant entered the sitting room. “My lady, the king wishes me to extend an invitation to dine with him and the queen this evening, if you are not too weary after your journey.”

Elwing paused in reaching for a tie to pull her hair back from her face. “I would like that,” she said. Better to meet Arafinwë sooner rather than later, she thought. “Just give me a moment.” The servant ducked her head and waited patiently as Elwing took a little more care in tying her hair back than she’d originally thought to.

The servant led Elwing through a few more hallways and down a short flight of stairs to the small, intimate dining room where Ëarwen waited with a tall, golden-haired man with broad shoulders who could only be Arafinwë. He had Gil-galad’s smile, and Galadriel’s eyes, though his gaze was not quite so piercing. His hands engulfed Elwing’s when he extended them in greeting, welcoming her warmly to Tirion, and to his home. “My sister Findis will be joining us soon,” he said. “But we shall spare you her brood tonight.”

“Oh,” Elwing said after a slight pause, unsure of the polite response. “Thank you.”

“Five children, all born after the Sun first rose,” Ëarwen added, shaking her head fondly. “The youngest—twins—are only ten, and already Findis and Túrandil are talking of more.”

Elwing waited until Arafinwë finished pouring the wine before remarking, “I knew women in Sirion who had a dozen children. One woman I knew birthed fifteen.”

“ _Goodness_ ,” said a voice from the doorway. A woman, tall as Arafinwë, but with hair the color of bronze rather than gold, swept into the room. She could only be Findis. “You must be Lady Elwing,” she said, taking a seat beside Ëarwen, who took up the wine carafe to fill her glass. “Who in the Outer Lands is birthing dozens of children? I thought you were all at war.”

“We _are_ at war,” Elwing said. “The women I spoke of are not Elves, though, but of the race of Men.” That appeared to startle everyone—more than Elwing would have expected. “It isn’t uncommon at all for Men to have large families.”

“I wouldn’t have thought it possible,” Findis said as servants entered to serve them. Elwing had not had a meal without fish since leaving Sirion, and it all looked and smelled delicious. “And they have such short lives, do they not?”

“Yes…” Elwing realized suddenly that she had no idea what the Elves of Valinor knew of the Secondborn, or what they thought of them. But this was hardly the setting to find out, and something undefinable about the way Findis spoke of Men made Elwing want to squirm like a child.

Ëarwen seemed to sense this, and turned the conversation to other, more benign topics—the weather, the festival in Valmar, Findis’ children, and what the harvests looked like. There was a slight tension in the air that Elwing could not quite identify, except that she did not seem to be the cause. Arafinwë spoke little, apparently preferring to listen to Findis and Ëarwen—and Elwing, though she kept quiet as well. There was not much she could say on the topic of their harvests, after all, and her opinions of the weather were confined to Alqualondë.

After the meal, Elwing pleaded weariness when invited to Findis’ parlor to continue the conversation, and Arafinwë offered to walk her back to her rooms. Elwing accepted gratefully. “I’m afraid I’m going to need an escort everywhere,” she said as they walked together down the hall. “Your palace is a maze.”

“It can seem that way,” Arafinwë agreed, mouth turning up in a wry smile. “I hope you will visit often enough to get used to it.”

Elwing smiled, but didn’t comment one way or the other, not wanting to make promises she would regret later, if she came to dislike Tirion with its vaulted towers and strange statues.

As they walked, Arafinwë pointed out tapestries and statues, explaining briefly what they depicted, and who had made them—Míriel, Finwë’s first wife, was responsible for many of the most beautiful tapestries and pieces of needlework in Tirion, and they paused before one that depicted the first waking of the Elves by Cuiviénen.

There had been a similar one in the hallway outside of Elwing’s nursery in Menegroth. It was one of the few things she remembered clearly about her days there. Melian’s work had not depicted the first waking, though, as Míriel’s did. In Melian’s tapestry the Elves had been dancing, hands raised toward the stars, heads thrown back, joy evident in every stitch. Elwing and her brothers had mimicked the dancers, spinning in circles until they were so dizzy they couldn’t stand and could hardly breathe for laughing.

Elwing hadn’t thought of Eluréd and Elurín in years. As she bid Arafinwë goodnight, she wondered how things would have been different if they had survived, if they had come down Sirion to the Sea with her. And then she shook her head. “Don’t be foolish,” she muttered, going to change for bed. Maybe it was the wine—sweet and light, but more potent than she’d thought, and it was making her maudlin and silly. She knew better than to dwell on maybes and what-ifs.

Before finally falling into bed, Elwing opened the window and leaned out over the sill, inhaling fresh, cool air that held no hint of the Sea. Somewhere an owl hooted quietly, and she could hear crickets chirping to each other in the garden below. Tirion was quiet that night, too few of its inhabitants returned from Valmar for there to be much nightlife, and it was strange to hear such silence. There seemed a void where there should have been the steady rush and retreat of waves on the sand. She’d spent so many years hating the Sea and yearning for the forests of her childhood, Elwing was surprised to find herself missing it now.

But at least the stars were the same. Eärendil could be seen already high in the sky. He’d only been gone a few weeks, but she missed him desperately—though it was easier to bear, this time. She could see him each night, and she knew he would come to no harm. “Good night, love,” she whispered, and retreated to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning it was not Ëarwen who came to fetch Elwing from her room, but a young woman, barely out of adolescence, with golden hair and a bright smile. “I am Áralossë, daughter of Findis,” she said. “Amil and my aunt and uncle are meeting with an emissary from the Valar this morning, and Aunt Ëarwen has my sister and me asked me to show you around Tirion, if you wish.”

“Oh,” Elwing said. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Áralossë’s sister Elencalimë met them outside on the street, bouncing on the balls of her feet, clearly eager to be off. Unlike her sister, Elencalimë bore the striking dark hair and grey eyes common among the Noldor; under other circumstances, had Elwing not known better, she might have mistaken Elencalimë for Gil-galad’s sister. “There is a bakery just down the hill,” she told Elwing, “with the best fruit-filled pastries in Valinor. Mm, I can smell them from here!” She seized Elwing and Áralossë’s hands and dragged them along behind her, continuing to chatter about blueberries and apples and other fruits that Elwing did not know.

They ate while walking through the streets lined with shops and homes, filling up steadily as folk trickled back into the city. “The city is still emptier than it once was,” Áralossë said as they paused to admire a fountain in one of the smaller squares, which featured a statue of dancing Nessa, arms stretching toward the sky. “There are whole sections of Tirion that stand completely empty, and have since the Exiles departed.”

Elencalimë stuck a strawberry-covered thumb in her mouth before asking Elwing, “Did your people ever build great cities in the Outer Lands?”

“Well, yes.” And so Elwing found herself describing Menegroth as best she could—its pillars carved like great beeches, its silver fountains, the tapestries that graced the halls of the thousand halls delved into the hillside by the Esgalduin. And then she had to try to describe Dwarves, which neither Áralossë nor Elencalimë had ever heard of. The best Elwing could offer of them was that they were short, bearded, fierce in battle, and greatly skilled in metalwork and the sculpting of stone. “I’ve never met any,” Elwing said, “and what friendship there was between the Sindar and the Naugrim is no more. But many of the Noldor were great friends with them. It was the Dwarves who gave your cousin Findaráto the name Felagund, when they helped him fashion his city Nargothrond after the manner of Menegroth.”

“You know, our friend Airelossë would love to meet you,” Elencalimë said, as they passed the fountain by and turned down another street that contained at least one forge, judging by the sharp smell of heated metal.

“Is she interested in caves?” Elwing asked.

“Oh, no—at least, I don’t _think_ so. But she’s been studying the origins of our language, and how different changes happened to Telerin as opposed to Quenya, and it all gets very technical when she talks about it.” Elencalimë shrugged, grinning. “And now here you are, with yet _another_ language she can study— _and_ you speak Quenya already, unlike whoever she might find in Lórien.”

“Who’s in Lórien?” Elwing asked.

“Eldar who never finished the Great Journey have started to return out of Mandos,” Áralossë said. “One of the first was Lady Elunis, Queen Lúnamírë’s mother; she appeared a few decades ago, when Elencalimë was very small. Airelossë spent most of our time in Valmar trying to get up the courage to ask for an audience.” She paused. “Well, Queen Elunis, maybe? She was Elmo’s wife, and he was the leader the Teleri took who stayed behind…”

Elwing shook her head. “Elunis was never a queen, nor Elmo a king,” she said. The sisters gave her matching looks of confusion. “Surely it is known by now that they found Elwë?”

“Not that we’ve heard,” Áralossë said, “but then, we’ve never asked.”

“He was my great-grandfather,” Elwing said. “He…” She trailed off as they paused beneath a tree, and a nightingale alighted on a branch just over their heads. She smiled at it, but although it peered down at her with a bright, beady eye, it trilled no greeting. Elwing’s smile faded; she’d never been met with silence from a nightingale.

Elencalimë followed her gaze. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Why isn’t she singing?” Elwing stepped forward and raised her hands. The nightingale hopped from the branch onto her fingers, and started preening its wings.

The sisters exchanged a glance. “I don’t know,” Áralossë said after a moment, sounding uncertain. “Perhaps she is ill?”

“No, that’s not it,” Elwing murmured. She ran her fingers lightly over the nightingale’s downy head. “Is there a place in Tirion where it is common to find nightingales?”

“In the gardens at the palace, in the evenings, I suppose,” Elencalimë said. “Though I can’t recall seeing them recently.”

“I’m sure there is someone you can ask,” Áralossë added. “But why are you so concerned? It’s only one bird.”

The nightingale took off, fluttering away southward over the rooftops, still eerily silent, until it shrank to a dot in the sky, and then vanished altogether. Elwing watched it go, sure without knowing why that it was _not_ only that one bird, that there was something wrong with the nightingales in this land.

Valinor was supposed to be a place of safety, of healing, of peace. So how could it be that Melian’s nightingales filled war-torn, ragged Beleriand with their music, but not this so-called Blessed Realm?

That evening, Elwing slipped out into the starlit gardens, and found a handful of nightingales clustered on the branches of one of the blossoming cherry trees. Elwing stood beneath them, and for several minutes they stared at each other, the silence eerie.

Nightingales had filled Elwing’s early childhood, on golden-green Tol Galen where their music was echoed in Lúthien’s laughter, and in the waters of the Lamath Lanthir. They’d followed her southward along the muddy banks of Sirion, and if they avoided the coast, she’d not had to go very far inland to find them. Since she’d flown to Vingilot, there had been so much else to think about that Elwing hadn’t realized how much she missed songbirds—all of them, but most especially the nightingales.

“There you are.” Ëarwen found Elwing just as she managed to coax one of the birds from the tree onto her palm. Ëarwen raised her eyebrows at the sight. “Elencalimë mentioned your concern,” she said. “Have you coaxed a song out of them, yet?”

“No.” Elwing frowned down at the little bird, nestled in her hand as though it intended to nest there. “Do you know what’s wrong with them?”

Ëarwen shook her head. “Arafinwë says he’s not even seen nightingales in Tirion in years.” She stepped up beside Elwing, making the nightingales in the tree fly to a higher branch. “You’ve a particular liking for these birds?”

“It’s rather the other way around,” Elwing said. “My foremother Melian taught them to sing, long ago, and they followed her when she left Valinor for Middle-earth after the Elves awoke. I think they recognize a little bit of her in me, maybe.” But not enough to sing for her—maybe that was to be expected. She was only a lesser daughter of much greater mothers. She could feel Ëarwen’s gaze on her, but kept her own eyes on the nightingale in her palm, a sudden thought entering her mind. Melian had vanished from Middle-earth after Thingol’s death. Elwing had never given it much thought, beyond the fact that she was gone like everyone else. But what if she had come back _here_ , to Valinor, to Lórien where she had dwelled long ages before the Elves had woken?

Then Ëarwen laughed, softly—and for a moment Elwing was startled into thinking that Galadriel had somehow crossed the Sea to join her in Tirion. But when she looked up it was only Ëarwen, her silver hair gleaming softly in the dying light of the evening. “You are full of surprises, cousin,” she said. “Come inside. The Valar have made an important announcement, and I think you will want to be part of the discussion.”

“They are going to war, aren’t they?” Elwing asked. She let the nightingale flutter back up to join his friends. “They’re going to deal with Morgoth, as they should have long ago.”

“Well, yes, but there will be a host of Elves marching with them,” Ëarwen said. She looped her arm through Elwing’s as they walked back toward the palace. “The Vanyar are already preparing, and it seems that Arafinwë will be leading a host of the Noldor with them.”

Elwing blinked. “Oh.”

Dinner was a similar affair to breakfast, with the added addition of Ingwion and his son Lalion, and the conversation centered around weaponry—swords and spears, and armor that the smiths of the Noldor would need to begin crafting in earnest. It should have been reassuring, Elwing thought, but mostly it was just disturbing—hearing them speak of warfare as though it were a particularly challenging hunting excursion.

She remained quiet throughout the meal, but when she was left alone in her room, Elwing set about exploring the desk that stood in the corner by a wide window overlooking the gardens. As Eärendil ascended into the sky, Elwing pulled out a handful of paper, and some graphite sticks. She had a good memory for images, and had spent so many years staring at maps that she was certain she could recreate one of reasonable use for Arafinwë and Ingwion.

It took most of the night; Elwing was out of practice when it came to drawing. There had been little use for it in Sirion, and paper had been a scarce and precious commodity. But finally she produced a map of Beleriand that matched the one in her mind. Elwing went to bed with grey-smudged fingers and a feeling of satisfaction that drowned out, for the time being, her other worries.

She overslept the next morning, not waking until the sun had already climbed high into the sky. Someone had come and left a basket of fruit and gone again. Elwing examined the contents, familiar by now with most fruit that grew in Aman, but in the end she chose a familiar apple, before going back to the desk. The map was where she’d left it, and even in the light of day she was pleased with the result. The lines needed to be redone in ink, rather than graphite, but someone else with more skill could do that.

A servant cheerfully told Elwing where she could find Arafinwë, but by the time she found the right patio, he’d disappeared. Lalion was there, though, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, head tilted back and eyes closed against the sun. There were three goblets and a carafe on the table next to him, as well as scattered bits of paper and parchment, held in place with inkwells and some of the rocks from the garden paths. He opened his eyes upon hearing Elwing step outside, and rose to bow. “My Lady Elwing,” he said, “good morning.”

“Good morning. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you…”

“Oh, no.” Lalion smiled, and pulled out a seat for her. As Elwing sat, a servant appeared seemingly out of nowhere with an extra goblet, and a large bowl of blackberries. “Arafinwë was called away to do—something, I forget what—and my father went with him. They’ll be back shortly, if you were hoping to speak with them.”

Elwing glanced over the papers. They looked like lists, although she wasn’t fluent enough in written Quenya to know exactly what they were for. “Actually, I just thought this might be helpful.” She set the map on the table, and unrolled it so Lalion could see.

His eyes widened as he leaned forward to examine it. “This is wonderful! Did you draw this?”

“Yes.”

“From _memory?_ ”

“If you’d spent as many hours staring at maps as I have, you might be able to recreate one, too.”

Lalion laughed. “I couldn’t. I can hardly write legibly, let alone draw with any precision. But thank you, Lady Elwing. This will be most helpful, I’m sure.”

“I hope so.” Elwing rose, as Arafinwë and Ingwion returned. “I will leave you to your planning, then. My lords.”

She went to look for Ëarwen, but was found by Elencalimë first. “I was thinking going riding,” the princess said, “would you like to come? The woods outside Tirion are beautiful this time of year.”

Elwing blinked. “I can’t,” she said. She’d only ridden a horse once in her life—on the journey from Ossiriand to Doriath, and that was with her mother’s arms locked securely around her to make sure she didn’t fall. After—well, there hadn’t been time or opportunity to fetch horses when they’d fled Doriath, and then there’d never been a need to learn, for there was nowhere to go, once you came to Sirion.

If her ignorance surprised Elencalimë, she didn’t show it. “Then would you like to go walking? I just want to get out of the city for a while, see real trees.”

The thought of returning to the forest—any forest—where everything was tinged with green as the sunlight filtered through thick canopies, where there was nothing to drown out the birdsong in the deep, cool shade and everything smelled of earth and leaf mold— “I would love to.”

A nightingale followed them as they made their way through Tirion, flitting silently from tree to bush to statue. Elwing found herself watching it, only half listening to Elencalimë pointing out shops and landmarks they hadn’t seen the day before.

When they stepped out of Tirion, its walls finally at their back, and a bright verdant landscape stretching out in front of them—woods and fields and meadows all untouched by war or drought or trouble—Elwing held out her hand, and the nightingale immediately alighted on her palm. It preened its wing for a moment before looking up at her and trilling a few notes of greeting. Something eased in Elwing’s chest, and she smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

Elwing had never been plagued by boredom before. She’d had to sit through dull lessons and dinners and meetings—but they’d never lasted more than a few hours, and in Sirion there had always been something to worry about, something to do. She’d been _glad_ for snatches of time when she could sit and breathe for a time without doing anything.

In Tirion, though, it seemed all she had was time to sit and breathe. There were no real demands on her time at all, and the lack of anything to worry about paradoxically made her increasingly anxious. She was reminded of the bitter stories told by some of the Gondolindrim, how they had trusted so completely in their hidden city that when the Enemy had finally come they’d been caught off guard and utterly unprepared. It felt like that was happening in Tirion—except she knew it was different, knew there was no Enemy to fear, not here.

However, _knowing_ did not, unfortunately, make her _feel_ any better.

Ëarwen was the first to notice Elwing’s discomfort, and her solution was almost absurdly simple: “No one is forcing you to stay in Tirion. Why not see for yourself that there are no orc hordes hiding in the hills?” She leaned against the door leading out to the balcony where Elwing had retreated, looking amused. “I can tell you don’t like Tirion.”

“I don’t… _dislike_ Tirion,” Elwing protested. Ëarwen laughed. “I suppose I just feel as though I should be _doing_ something.”

“I can’t imagine what it must be like in the Outer Lands, then; you make it sound as though you’ve never had time for leisure.” Ëarwen sobered as she came to sit beside Elwing. From there they could see most of the city, bright and almost blinding in the late afternoon sun, and bustling with activity. It reminded Elwing of a beehive, never still. It was so hard to imagine it as Eärendil had described, empty and silent, his footsteps echoing as he passed through. Even from this high up in the palace Elwing could hear distant shouting, screaming children, the occasional chiming of bells. “There are many who want to meet you, to hear all that has happened since the Exiles departed,” Ëarwen said. “Anairë most of all, but she’s lingered in Valmar with Indis.”

“Áralossë and Elencalimë say that there are Sindar returning out of Mandos,” Elwing said. “That they are gathered in Lórien.”

“I’m told some went to Valmar for the festival, though they remained apart from the Noldor and Vanyar gathered there, except to pay their respects to Lúnamírë.”

“Why did they go, if not to mingle with the rest of the Elves?”

Ëarwen shrugged. “I cannot say. I was not there, else I might have tried to ask them. But they’ll have returned to Lórien, or wherever they’ve decided to settle, by now. Don’t you think they would welcome a visit from their queen?”

Elwing sighed. “I’m sure they would, but I’ve not heard anything about Melian.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I am not the queen they want or expect,” Elwing said.

“But you are the queen they have,” Ëarwen said. “You can have your pick of horses from our stables. And if you would like an escort…”

“I cannot believe Elencalimë has failed to mention that I don’t know how to ride,” Elwing said.

“Then we shall have to teach you! If nothing else, it will be a very Noldorin remedy for boredom.” At Elwing’s quizzical look, Ëarwen smiled. “Learning a new skill, I mean.”

 

Horses made Elwing nervous. They were big and powerful, and in Sirion she had seen more than once the result of falling from the back of one. But Áralossë and Elencalimë both volunteered to teach her. “We taught Aniswë and Analimë to ride, and Aniswë was positively terrified, at first,” Elencalimë told Elwing while intro ducting her to a sweet and docile mare. “But they’re still small enough for ponies—you can imagine her relief.”

“I almost wish I was small enough to be given a pony,” Elwing said, and Elencalimë laughed.

In the end, though, learning to ride was not as difficult or as painful as Elwing had feared, and she passed several pleasant weeks riding all about the countryside around Tirion with Elencalimë, and sometimes with the young twins as well, who were eager to show Elwing all of their favorite picnic spots, and to introduce her to some of their friends among the farmers and herders.

One afternoon, Arafinwë asked Elwing if she would join him for a ride. “I fear I have been a poor host,” he said as they left the city gates. “Ëarwen tells me you are unhappy in Tirion.”

Elwing raised her eyes skyward. “I am not _unhappy_ ,” she said. “But I admit I miss the sea—which is something I never expected to hear myself say.” Arafinwë laughed. “You must promise never to tell Eärendil. He can be insufferably smug.”

“You were not fond of the sea in the Outer Lands?”

“I hated it,” Elwing admitted, “for a very long time. I still prefer the forest to the shore. But after spending nearly my whole life by the shore, it’s strange to come so far inland that I cannot hear the waves anymore.”

Arafinwë nodded. “I know what you mean. I used to spend more than half my time in Alqualondë with Ëarwen and her family. Our children spent as much time there as they did in Tirion, growing up.” He smiled ruefully. “And at the end it was a place to escape to, away from all the tension in Tirion.”

“Have you been back, since…?” Elwing asked before thinking better of it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right. I’ve only been back once. I have personally reconciled with Ëarwen—obviously—and most of her family, but between our peoples there is still a great deal of tension, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” Elwing nodded. “Speaking of tension…” Arafinwë sighed, his gaze shifting to the road ahead of them, where a pair of travelers approached on foot. They were both women, tall and dressed in traveling leathers, more like to the Laegrim of Ossiriand than to anyone Elwing had yet met in Valinor. “There is Minyelmë, and her mother Lady Elunis. She was wed to Elmo…”

“I have heard,” Elwing said. “Do you not get along?”

“I’ve only spoken with Lady Elunis once,” Arafinwë said, “at this past festival in Valmar. As for Minyelmë—well, she used to be great friends with our family. But since the Darkening she has not set foot in Tirion. I imagine she and her mother are here now because of you, Elwing.”

“Ai! Lúthien, is that you?” one of the women called out suddenly. Elwing stiffened, and her mare tossed her head and snorted.

“Lúthien?” Arafinwë repeated, glancing at Elwing.

“Elwë’s daughter,” Elwing said. “My grandmother.”

“Ah.” Arafinwë nodded, his smile returning. “It seems you take after her.”

Elwing shook her head. “I really do not.” She dismounted as the women drew closer, the one who had called out—Elunis, no doubt—breaking into a run.

“Ah, not Lúthien,” she said upon reaching Elwing. “You are not so tall—oh, but you look like her!”

“Lúthien was my grandmother,” Elwing said. “I am Elwing, Dior’s daughter.”

“The mariner’s wife,” said the other traveler to her companion, before turning back to Elwing. “Well met, cousin. I am Minyelmë, and this is my mother Elunis. And, Ammë, you remember Arafinwë Finwion?”

“I do remember.” Unlike Minyelmë, who remained stern and apparently unhappy to see Arafinwë, Elunis smiled up at him.

He smiled back, before looking at Elwing. “I must return to Tirion. Shall I leave you to walk with your cousins…?”

Elwing nodded. “I will see you later this evening.”

As Arafinwë cantered away back toward Tirion, Minyelmë looked sidelong at Elwing. “So is it true that you are an enchantress of the Avari who can change shape at will and bewitch the heart of even the most noble of the Eldalië?”

“Am I _what?_ ”

Minyelmë laughed. When she smiled she looked more like Elunis, and not so stern. “There is little for the Elves to do here but gossip,” she said. “It leads sometimes to outlandish stories.”

Elunis laughed. “Not so outlandish,” she said. “You have never heard Lúthien sing.” Her smile faded. “Even the Lord of Mandos was moved by her song—I remember, it was so astonishing to hear her there. But she did not linger long, and what became of her after, I do not know. She was not returned to life here.”

“I can tell you what happened,” Elwing said. “But it is a long tale.”

They started walking back towards Tirion. Elwing’s horse nudged her shoulder until she reached up to stroke its nose. “Are you headed to Lórien?” she asked. “I’ve heard the Sindar newly come from Mandos have gathered there.”

“Yes,” Elunis said. “We have not decided yet whether we wish to join ourselves to Olwë’s folk, or find somewhere else to settle—except those of the Falathrim, who have already gone to the coast. I think most wish to find a place to await Elu’s coming.” She glanced at Elwing. “We know his spirit resides in Mandos, but no one can say why. There are rumors of Melian’s return to the Gardens of Lórien, but she has not revealed herself to us—even the nightingales have fallen silent.”

“I’d wondered why that was,” Minyelmë murmured.

A nightingale chose that moment to flutter down and land on Elwing’s shoulder, chirping a greeting before settling down to enjoy the walk back to Tirion. Minyelmë stared, but Elunis laughed. “She recognizes you!”

“You should come with us to Lórien,” Minyelmë said after a few minutes of walking. “In the absence of my father and uncle, they will look to you for leadership.”

Elwing thought that when Elmo returned from Mandos she would quite happily cede authority to him. She may be Thingol’s heir, but she was not Thingol—she did not even resemble Lúthien in more than coloring, no matter what Celeborn liked to say.

She missed him, suddenly, so greatly that it made her chest ache. He and Galadriel, and everyone else she’d left behind in the fires of Sirion who had known her from childhood.

But she couldn’t just hide away in Tirion or in Alqualondë. Especially if she was expected elsewhere. “I had thought of going,” she said. “I’ve only really seen Alqualondë and Tirion—and Valmar, briefly—since coming to Valinor. I would like to see more of it.”

“I only wish I could have seen it under the Light of the Trees,” Elunis said.

As they approached Tirion’s walls, Minyelmë slowed. “This is where I leave you,” she said. “I prefer to camp beneath the stars.” With a wave and a smile that did not reach her eyes, she walked off, leaving the road for the fields.

“Don’t mind her,” Elunis said, slipping her arm through Elwing’s. “She’s not been to Tirion in years, but it isn’t because she is angry or resentful—not anymore. But she won’t tell me the full story—and neither will Lúnamírë, though I know that she knows it.

“But enough of that—I want to know everything you can tell me of Beleriand, what happened after I died. How did you come to marry the mariner, and come to Valinor?”

Elwing swallowed a sigh. The tale was long and painful enough that she did not relish telling it again—and again, and again, as she knew she would, until enough folk heard it to retell it themselves. “Of course,” she said.

Elwing found a boy who happily accepted a few coins in exchange for taking her horse on to the palace, and then she and Elunis found a small, quiet tavern where they could sit in an even quieter corner to talk over glasses of sweet wine without being disturbed.

Elunis listened to Elwing’s tales quietly, her dark eyes never wavering from Elwing’s face. She did not interrupt, even to ask questions. When Elwing finally finished, Elunis sighed, and drained her wineglass before speaking.

“I knew it would not be good news,” she said finally, after a smiling barmaid came and refilled both their glasses for them. “But I did not think…ah, Elu! He always had his pride, but I never thought it would grow so much that he would be deafened even to Melian’s counsel.”

“The Silmaril did strange things to people,” Elwing said. “And people did terrible things in order to possess it, or keep it.”

“It is clear to me that it was meant to come to you,” Elunis said. She covered Elwing’s hand with hers, tanned and rough with callouses. “If it had not, we wouldn’t be sitting here together now, and the Valar would not be preparing for war against Morgoth.”

“Everything seems Destined in hindsight,” Elwing said, “especially if it all happened to someone else.”

Elunis laughed quietly. “Perhaps. But that doesn’t make it untrue, even if it is little comfort—and speaking of comfort, will you come to Lórien with Minyelmë and me? I can see you are not happy here. It might be different among your own people.”

Elwing did not answer right away. She’d left her people behind to burn in Sirion. But it was such a relief to speak her own language even for one afternoon that in the end she nodded. “Of course,” she said. “I have been wanting to see more of this land, in any case.”


	4. Chapter 4

They departed Tirion several days later, on horseback. Elunis and Minyelmë rode without saddle or bridle, after the manner of starlit Beleriand. Elwing watched her cousin spring lightly onto a great gelding’s back and shuddered before hoisting herself into her own thrice-checked saddle.

She couldn’t deny feeling relief as Tirion shrank into the distance behind them, a shining white beacon atop Túna. Minyelmë and Elunis proved to be great traveling companions, both fond of traveling songs and filled with entertaining stories to pass the miles.

The countryside was beautiful, too. They passed fields of wheat and corn and other crops Elwing did not know at first glance, and also orchards, and fields filled with nothing but flowers that filled the air with fragrances sweet and sometimes nearly overpowering. Minyelmë jumped down once to gather an armful of flowers that had been planted inadvertently and haphazardly along the roadside, and spent the next half hour stringing them together into coronets for the three of them, hardly paying attention to her horse or, it seemed, to staying on its back.

That evening they camped by the roadside, beneath the stars. Elunis sang an old song as she kindled the fire. Minyelmë stretched out on the sweet-smelling grass, humming along as the stars glimmered to life in the purpling sky as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. Vingilot was not yet visible, but it would be, sooner or later—if the Valar had hoped for constancy in their messenger, they were sure to be disappointed.

The thought might have made Elwing smile, if she didn’t miss Eärendil so much.

“Tell me more about Cuiviénen?” she asked after a while. She’d never felt terribly curious about the Waters before, but here she was with two who’d been born there, both of them older—in spirit, if not in body—than anyone she had ever known, except perhaps Círdan.

Elunis smiled. The firelight danced across her face and flashed in her eyes. “You know the Sea,” she said. “The Waters were different. Calmer. The sky reflected on the water like a mirror, so you could not tell where the water ended and the sky began. We built our homes along the shoreline, the Minyar together, and the Tatyar, and our folk the Nelyar. From the start, it was our clan that loved the water best, and the forests—though all the best hunters were Minyar…”

Minyelmë spoke of racing along pebbled beaches, and carving elaborate designs into wooden combs and beads and spear handles. She spoke of the dances her parents taught her, wild dances that made the ones still practiced by the Iathrim and Laegrim seem _tame_ in comparison…

When Elwing fell asleep that night, she dreamed of rough animal-skin drums pounding in time to feet in the dirt, with the stars wheeling around her like diamond fire as she soared through them on silver wings.

They rose early the next day, mist drifting through the orchards, making the trees seem strangely ghost-like in the early gloaming. Somewhere she could hear singing, a song of ripening fruit and deep-growing roots. As the music reached them Minyelmë straightened, breaking into a broad grin. “Ah, I thought we were close!” she exclaimed.

“Close to what?” Elunis asked as she sprung lightly onto her horse. Elwing got into the saddle far more slowly and with much less grace.

“My friends’ home! I’ve told you about them, Ammë—Lámion and Cullasso!”

“ _Oh_ , yes! Is that them singing now?”

“That sounds like Lámion.” Minyelmë smiled at Elwing. “I met Lámion and Cullasso just after I came out of Mandos. They were traveling home from visiting kin somewhere in the south, and let me ride with them as far as Tirion, since I of course had no idea where I was going.

“Come! They’ll be so pleased to meet you—and it is the season for blackberries!”

The singer they had heard was indeed Lámion, who stood overseeing other workers in the orchards and thickets, picking blackberries and blueberries and even strawberries. When he reached the chorus they joined in, filling the air with a sweet harmony—though someone among the blueberry bushes was singing off key.

Elwing had lived mainly on berries in the days between parting from Eärendil on the shore and coming to Alqualondë. Now, as then, they made her think of Elrond and Elros, both of them wont to return from berry picking with Luinnel or Lindir with purple sticky fingers and a mild stomach ache. And thinking of them, as it always did, made something constrict painfully in her chest.

Lámion turned at the sound of their horses on the road, and with a delighted shout came running to greet them. “Minyelmë! Well met, my friend; what brings you down Tirion way?”

Both Lámion and Cullasso were typical Noldor in appearance, with dark hair and grey eyes that flickered with the Light of the Two Trees. But they were not like the craftsmen or nobility she’d met in Tirion; they were farmers, with dirt under their fingernails, and songs to Yavanna rather than Aulë on their lips. Lámion walked with them down the road to a large sprawling house, where he lived with Cullasso and a surprising number of others—many of whom did not have Tree Light in their eyes, and who called both Cullasso and Lámion _Atar_.

“There were many children left behind when Fëanáro led the Noldor out of Tirion,” Minyelmë told Elunis and Elwing. “And many of those were left with no family to look after them, and nowhere to go—so Cullasso and Lámion took in as many as they could. More than they could fit into their home, which is why it’s so odd looking now. They just add on as they need to.”

And now those children were grown, and some had children of their own. Elwing nearly screamed when a pair of dark-haired children with berry-purple fingers came running through the courtyard. An older girl with copper colored braids and more freckles than Elwing had ever seen on one face went running after them.

“Are you all right, Elwing?” Elunis asked as Lámion went hunting for Cullasso. “You look a bit pale.”

“I’m fine,” Elwing said, as her heart slowly regained its normal rhythm. She was being ridiculous. Her sons weren’t here—and they weren’t going to suddenly _appear_ just because she thought of them. No matter how much she might wish for it.

Both Lámion and Cullasso were delighted to meet Elunis and Elwing, because they were Minyelmë’s kin, and because they’d come from Tirion and had all the latest news. “Is it _really_ true that new star is one of Prince Fëanáro’s Silmarils?” asked one of their adopted daughters, whose name Elwing couldn’t recall through the haze of introductions.

“Yes, it is,” Minyelmë said. “I’m sure all the bards are scribbling away furiously even now, trying to put all of the Mariner’s deeds into song.”

“But they don’t know any of his deeds,” Elwing said, frowning. She didn’t either, not really. Eärendil had never spoken much of his voyages when he returned to Sirion, at least not to her. Círdan probably knew more than anyone, but of course no bard here could ask _him_. Unless Ulmo or Ossë carried messages across the Sea, which seemed unlikely.

“They’ll still put them to song,” Minyelmë said cheerfully. “The Vanyar can turn a flower blooming into an epic lay half a dozen cantos long. Oh, I hope I’m present when Eärendil comes back and hears the first ones. I imagine the look on his face will be worth a song on its own!”

 

They stayed a week at the home of Cullasso and Lámion. Elwing learned a dozen new recipes, but the whole time she felt restless, like they were wasting time that should be spent doing something more useful.

“We can leave if you like,” Minyelmë said as they sat on a veranda in the late-afternoon sun, sipping a drink made from the juice of a sour fruit they called a lemon mixed with water and sugar. Elwing had not yet decided whether she liked it or not. They’d never had lemons in Sirion. “But it doesn’t really matter _when_ we get to Lórien. Everyone will still be there.”

“I know.” Elwing took another sip and pursed her lips. “But I do want to return to Tirion before the Valar set forth.”

“It will be some time yet before that happens—long enough that we don’t really need to hurry.” Minyelmë set her empty glass down and reached for the pitcher. “The world won’t end if you relax a little, Elwing.”

“Don’t push her, Minya,” said Elunis, springing lightly up the steps to join them, Lámion at her side. “In Middle-earth it _is_ dangerous to let one’s guard down.”

“I know that, Ammë,” Minyelmë said evenly. “That _is_ how I died, you know.”

“It’s worse now,” Elunis said. “The Enemy’s creatures were few in number, and disorganized, then. Their strength lay in the fear they instilled in us. The thing that killed you was not the same as the things that killed me.”

Elwing flinched at the mention of their deaths, wondering what went on in Mandos that its inhabitants could return to the world with the ability to speak so matter-of-factly about their own deaths.

Lámion grimaced, too. “It’s too fine an afternoon to sit talking of death and war,” he said. “Let’s have a happier tale—Elunis, Elwing, tell us about Doriath!”

Elwing set her glass down and rose. “Elunis can tell you more than I,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go for a walk.”

“Would you like company?” Lámion asked.

“No, thank you.”

The orchards were quite Noldorin—neat, orderly. They might have sculpted the trees like topiaries if it would have helped fruit production, Elwing thought. She walked between rows of apple trees; it was between the time of blossoming and the harvest, so the apples on the branches were small and green. Occasionally she came upon someone walking through the orchards singing songs of growth and abundance.

At the edge of the orchard a field of grass and wildflowers opened up before her, like a many-colored carpet, swaying in the breeze. Wild carrots were growing in abundance, here, their lacy blooms a pale counterpoint to the bright poppies and yellow daisies and dandelions growing beside them. A flock of birds took flight as Elwing waded into the grasses, and she watched them flutter into the sky and shrink into small black dots in the distance.

“Lovely, aren’t they?” A voice at her side made Elwing jump, and then trip over her skirts to fall over. Laughter like a songbird followed her down, and Elwing found herself staring up at a man with feathers in his hair, and a light in his eyes that was more than Treelight. A Maia, then. “I’m sorry,” he said, extending a hand to help her up. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“Yes, you did.” Elwing grasped his hand, and he pulled her to her feet as though she weighed nothing. “Who are you?”

“I am called Aiwendil,” he said. “I know who you are, Lady Elwing. You’re Melyanna’s granddaughter. Do you miss it?”

Elwing blinked. “Miss what?”

“Flying, of course! You haven’t taken wing since you landed here.”

“Of course not.” Elwing dusted pollen off her skirts. “I can’t.”

Aiwendil laughed. “Of course you can! Ulmo could not have saved just anyone in the manner he saved you, you know. If you ever want to fly again, come find me! Or perhaps I’ll find you. Farewell, Melyanna’s daughter!” And with that, he twisted, in a burst of feathers transforming into some kind of hawk, before soaring up and away into the sky. Elwing watched him until he disappeared, like the meadowlarks before him. Could she really fly again, if she wished? Perhaps it was possible—Lúthien had done dozens of incredible things. But Lúthien had been Melian’s daughter, and the daughter of Elu Thingol, a powerful Elf in his own right. Elwing was only Lúthien’s granddaughter, and she’d done nothing at all incredible in her life, except run away.

When she returned to the house, Elwing found Elunis still entertaining Lámion and Minyelmë with tales of Doriath, when it was still called Eglador, and ungirdled. Cullasso had joined them, also.

As Elwing stepped onto the veranda, one of the younger children ran outside. “Maltien is home!” he announced. “And Master Mahtan and Lady Nerdanel are with her!”

“Mahtan came himself?” Lámion lurched to his feet. “All I sent for was horseshoes!” Cullasso laughed as Lámion rushed inside.

Minyelmë raised her eyebrows. “What’s _Mahtan_ doing here?” she asked.

“Shoeing our horses, apparently. I don’t know why Nerdanel came with him,” Cullasso said. “I should greet him also, but I’ve been on my feet since sunup. Tatharon, take pity on your elder and fetch some more lemonade, won’t you?” The boy who’d brought the message rolled his eyes fondly, and disappeared with the nearly-empty pitcher.

When Tatharon returned, two women trailed behind him. The first had to be Maltien, because the second was clearly Nerdanel. Elwing had braced herself for a shock of red hair, but was surprised to find that Nerdanel herself did not resemble her sons in that way. Her hair was brown, with only a hint of red in the rosy glow of afternoon sunlight hitting the veranda. Her features were softer, too, more given to smiling.

“Hello, Atar,” Maltien said. She leaned down to kiss Cullasso. “And Minyelmë! I thought you were still in Valmar.”

“Change of plans,” Minyelmë replied. She rose to clasp hands with Nerdanel. “Well met, my lady. May I introduce my mother, Elunis? And this is my cousin, Elwing.”

If Maltien or Nerdanel recognized her name, neither showed it, and after the requisite pleasantries, Nerdanel excused herself. “I’m afraid I did not come to pay a social visit,” she said, a little sheepishly. “Lámion said I may wander your orchards to sketch.”

“Yes, of course!” Cullasso waved a hand out toward the trees. “Please, feel free to wander wherever you like. Only forgive me for not getting up to show you the best spots.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Nerdanel laughed. “Tatharon told us you’ve been on your feet all day. I’ll be fine on my own.” And with that she was off, heading the same way Elwing had gone on her own walk, hair swinging behind her with each step. Elwing watched her go; whatever she’d expected, Nerdanel was not quite it.

“How was your walk, Elwing?” Minyelmë asked as she sat down. Maltien disappeared inside with Tatharon, saying something about dinner, and washing the dirt of the road off her.

“It was nice,” Elwing said, and smiled at Cullasso. “Your fields are beautiful.” He smiled back and raised his glass to her. Elwing accepted the glass Elunis handed to her, and took a sip. It tasted sweeter then, than it had before.


	5. Chapter 5

Elwing met Mahtan the next morning. Minyelmë had apparently expected the beard to startle her, but his bright red hair made a far bigger impression, particularly in the flickering light from the kitchen hearth fire. The pleasantries exchanged were brief, however, and Mahtan didn't seem to notice her less-than-gracious manner, distracted as he was by the morning's work finishing shoeing the rest of Lámion's horses.

"They'll be leaving tomorrow morning," Minyelmë told Elwing as they lingered at the breakfast table. "Mahtan asked if we'd like to travel with them for a time." She speared a piece of melon with her fork. "Mahtan's family lives near Aulë's mansions, which aren't far from Lórien."

Elwing wrinkled her nose. "Will we be visiting Aulë's mansions?" Aulë was the forger, and she'd never liked forges—so much smoke and heat, and the smell of hot metal made her nose hurt.

"No. I've only been there a few times, when traveling with—friends. I prefer Oromë's forests. They remind me most of the woods near Cuiviénen. Do you like hunting, Elwing?"

"I've never been hunting," Elwing said. Minyelmë's eyebrows shot up. "It was too dangerous."

"Oh, of course. I keep forgetting. If you like, we can go together sometime." Minyelmë rose, arching her back in a stretch. Tatharon ducked under one of her outstretched arms to snatch an apple from the bowl on the table. "I'm going to go find Ammë."

Elwing stepped outside to find wild carrot flowers scattered over the veranda, and Nerdanel examining one closely, her sketchbook open on her lap. A page had already been filled with studies of the flower. She looked up when Elwing paused, and smiled a little sheepishly. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," Elwing replied. She raised her skirts and carefully stepped over the flowers. "What's all this?"

"Oh, I found a whole field of them yesterday. I'd forgotten how lovely Queen Míriel's Lace is—so intricate. You see?" She held up the flower in her hand for Elwing's inspection. The cluster of tiny white blooms was indeed lovely and intricate, and very lace-like, with a tiny, darker spot in the very center. Elwing nodded, because Nerdanel looked so pleased. "I think I might use this pattern in a wire sculpture—white gold, perhaps, or silver…"

Elwing left her to it, recognizing the signs of an artist so absorbed in her work that nothing could shake her loose. Lindir was much the same when crafting a new song—though it seemed Nerdanel was less likely to snarl at someone for interrupting her trail of thought.

She spent most of the day by herself, wandering the orchards and the flower gardens. Nightingales had started flocking to her, a few of them even letting loose snatches of song, though for the most part they remained silent and somber. "Why will you not sing properly?" she asked them, as one alighted on her shoulder and another came to perch on her fingers. "What grief could assail you _here_ , little birds?"

They gave her no answer—not one she could understand, anyway. Perhaps she could find someone to teach her the language of birds. That Maia Aiwendil would no doubt be happy enough to do it; _Come find me!_ he had said, but how did one go about _finding_ a Maia, here in Valinor where to take on a body was less effort for them than pulling on a dress was for her? "I should have asked him about you when I had the chance," she said to the nightingale perched on her fingers. It winked at her and went back to preening its wings. "Or perhaps he'll find me again, like he said."

That night she dreamed of Menegroth, for the first time in years. Usually in such dreams she was a small child again, carried on her mother's hip or sitting on her father's lap as he held court in the largest of the thousand halls, filled with the music of fountains. But this time she was a woman grown, and stood before one of the many tapestries that adorned the walls, woven hundreds of years before her birth, by Queen Melian, or Lúthien, in the long twilight of the world.

Only this tapestry was unfamiliar, and as she stood and watched, the image began to move. Waves lapped at red-stained shores, and gold-threaded flames licked at piers and ships and homes, and two small dark figures huddled together, until a larger figure, also dark, with an eight-pointed star of silver thread on his breast, discovered them. He sheathed his sword and scooped them up, but other figures came from the burning town, and he fled, joined by a red-haired figure, taking the children with them.

Dismayed, Elwing reached to the tapestry, aching to snatch away the small dark-haired boys from their kidnappers. "Elrond, Elros!" she cried, but beneath her fingers the tapestry crumbled into ash, and all around her Menegroth burned, and then the sea rushed down through the halls to drown her in blood-stained foam—

She woke with burning lungs and tears on her face. Beside her Minyelmë slept on, undisturbed. Outside the window the sky was graying toward dawn. They would be leaving in only a few hours. Elwing slipped carefully out of bed and padded across the cool stone floor to the washroom. A splash of cold water erased all traces of her tears, but her throat and lungs ached with the memory of frigid saltwater after acrid smoke, and when she closed her eyes she saw firelight flickering on red hair, and eyes—Nerdanel's eyes, she realized with a start—burning with cold fire. When she opened them again, she saw her hands were shaking. She clenched them into fists, her fingernails biting into her palms.

Minyelmë stretched lazily and yawned, blinking her eyes open lazily as Elwing stepped back into the bedroom. "You're up early," she said. "Did you sleep well?"  
"Yes, of course," Elwing said, the lie rolling easily off her tongue, as it had her whole life. The only people it had never fooled had been Galadriel and, after their marriage, Eärendil. She went to her things to check, again, that she had not forgotten anything. "How far is it to Mahtan's house?"

"Oh, I don't know. A few days. And then a couple more to Lórien, if we ride leisurely; if we rode hard we could make it in one, I suppose, though I've never tried. Mahtan will probably invite us to stay a while with them. And I'm sure they'll have all the latest news from Tirion."

It would be good to know the kind of progress they were making. Elwing just wasn't sure how she was going to look Nerdanel in the eye. Her dream still lingered in her mind. It had the feel of truth, a heavy weight settled on her heart, and really, she was not surprised. She was a daughter of Melian, after all, who had been famed for her foresight.

Only she wasn't sure if it was better or worse, for her sons to be held hostage by Maedhros and Maglor rather than dead. How could they be trusted or expected to raise children well? Especially the children of their enemy, when all hope of ransom was destroyed with Eärendil's first rising.

"Elwing?" Minyelmë's hand landed on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, what?" She looked up into her cousin's face.

"I said, are you hungry? It will be time for breakfast soon."

"Yes. Yes, I'm coming." Elwing secured her pack and rose to follow Minyelmë down the stairs and to the kitchen, where the smell of fresh bread greeted them.  
"Good morning!" Cucuë, another one of Lámion and Cullasso's many children, greeted them with a bright smile. "I've baked way bread for your journeying," she said. "And honey cakes for breakfast."

"Wonderful!" Minyelmë reached for two, still steaming on the rack, to slide onto plates and drizzle with honey and butter. "Has my mother woken, yet?"

"She was awake before I was," said Cucuë. "I think she's off outside, somewhere."

Breakfast was not a formal affair in this house—there were too many people with too many things to see to in the morning for everyone to sit down properly. Elwing sat with Minyelmë, the two of them lingering over their honey cakes and bowls of sugared berries as Minyelmë chatted and laughed with Cucuë, while others flitted in and out of the kitchen, stopping only long enough to grab a honey cake or slice of bread and to kiss Cucuë good morning. She was the oldest of Cullasso and Lamion's adopted children, having been an adolescent at the time of the Darkening, and spent her days mothering the rest. Of them all, she had been the only one to venture a question to Elwing about her parents, but they had been a part of the host of Fëanor, and their names were not familiar to Elwing. It was likely they were dead—she only hoped they had died in battle with Morgoth, and not in Doriath or at Sirion.

Mahtan and Nerdanel came in with Lámion, filling the kitchen with bright laughter and talk of horses and metals, and then about the state of the roads, and whether it was likely to rain over the next few days. "I think it will hold off until we reach home," Mahtan said. "You should get the rain before we do, in any case—it usually comes from the north."

"We do need it," Lámion said. Then, "Have you heard the news out of Tirion?"

"The call to arms? Yes. I received a letter from Arafinwë himself, asking me to help forge swords and spearheads." Mahtan's mouth twisted unhappily beneath his beard. "Someone has recovered Fëanáro's designs from some cabinet somewhere."

"And will you?" Lámion asked.

"I must. There are very few smiths now with that kind of skill, and sword smithing is an art unto itself. I and my students will be very busy over the next few years. And still more smiths will be needed to make armor."

Elwing thought of Eärendil's armor, tucked away in a closet in Alqualondë. He never wore it while sailing, and he certainly did not need it now—though he would, before the war was over, she thought. It had been crafted of the finest steel to be found on Balar, by Celebrimbor, who placed songs and spells on it to ward all wounds and harm from the wearer. It was battered and stained with salt and blood, because if something did not relate directly to sailing Eärendil was less than careful with it, but Elwing suspected that suit of armor could withstand a dragon, let alone a little poor upkeep. She hoped the armor forged here would be as durable. It had to be.  
In the end, they did not depart with Mahtan and Nerdanel; a message came for Nerdanel from Anairë in Tirion, and some important piece of equipment chose that morning to break, requiring a little more of Mahtan's skill and time. Minyelmë would have been happy to linger with them, but Elunis was eager to see the Sindarin folk in Lórien, and Elwing's dream had put a strange itch under her skin. So they said their farewells and set off again. The sun was warm, but there was a breeze, carrying the sent of fruit and flowers with them along the road, and the sound of singing. Elunis and Minyelmë chatted about the weather and about the land around—who tilled which fields, lived in which houses—but Elwing only half listened. She kept thinking of her dream, of the little boys in the tapestry, and wondering what it meant. The Sons of Fëanor had taken her brothers and left them to freeze or starve in the depths of Neldoreth. Had they done the same to her boys, in the same spirit of revenge? She had been so sure that both Elrond and Elros were dead by the time she'd jumped, but what if she had only left them to an even worse fate…?

After a few days the beech trees of Lórien came into view, a green haze in the distance. "Ah, Lórien," Elunis sighed, smiling.

"Does everyone go to Lórien, when they are released from Mandos?" Elwing asked.

"I suppose not," Minyelmë said. "But Estë and her folk are healers—of the body, I mean. I remember it was difficult for me to get used to having a body again. So cumbersome, after going so long without one!"

"And Lórien is as pleasant a place to spend your first waking days as you could wish for," Elunis said. "I—oh, Elwing, look!" She pointed to the side of the road, where flowers grew. This was nothing unusual, and Elwing had long since failed to heed just what the flowers were, especially since she was unfamiliar with nearly all of them. Now she leaned forward to peer at the small white blossoms waving in the breeze, and then looked back at Elunis in surprise. "I have never seen them grow here, before!" Elunis said.

"What are they?" Minyelmë asked. She dropped from her horse and picked one. "They smell lovely."

"Niphredil," Elunis said. "They first bloomed in Doriath when Lúthien was born, and spread from there all across Beleriand, and perhaps farther east."

"But why would they bloom here now, if they have not before?" Elwing asked.

"Why would they bloom now, asks Lúthien's granddaughter, just after she's arrived in Valinor!" Elunis laughed. Elwing made a face. "Perhaps it is the power of Melian—perhaps she has heard you are coming. Come, let us see!" With that she urged her horse into a canter, and then a full gallop. Minyelmë sprang onto her own horse and tore after her down the road, leaving Elwing to catch up as she could.


End file.
